The Mystic's Dream
by blacksouledbutterfly
Summary: TristanOFC She was the wind of change, and he didn't know what to think of her. She was all he hated and all he would love, but fate was against them and war would change their lives forever.
1. Prologue: Servitude

Okay, fair warning, I have written mostly Harry Potter fanfictions up until now. I am not completely sure about writing one for something else, but I love _King Arthur _so I figured I would try. If it is horrible I am sorry.

The title of the song refers to a Loreena McKennit song which is featured in _The Mists of Avalon_, and the entire time I was watching _King Arthur_ I have that song stuck in my head. It will fit, as you will see. I have also decided to add a little bit of contemporary Arthurian legendry into the story by having some sort of mystical happenings. No magic, just odd coincidences, and perhaps a premonition or two.

Disclaimer: I own no one from the original movie. Anyone you don't recognize is mine. Also lines and scenes from the movie (some from the extended version) belong to the writer, directors, producers and so forth. Everything else is a creation of my own.

Reviews are loved, but not necessary. Even bad reviews are welcome. Maybe they will help improve my writing. Maybe not. Don't know until you try, right?

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_By 300 AD, the Roman Empire extended from Arabia to Britain. But they wanted more. More land. More peoples loyal and subservient to Rome. But no people so important as the powerful Sarmatians to the east. _

_Thousands died on that field. And when the smoke cleared on the fourth day, the only Sarmatian soldiers left alive were members of the decimated but legendary calvary. The Romans, impressed by their bravery and horsemanship, spared their lives. In exchange, these warriors were incorporated into the Roman military. _

_Better they had died that day. _

_For the second part of the bargain they struck indebted not only themselves but also their sons, and their sons, and so on, to serve the empire as nights._

_I was such a son._

_Our post was Britain- of at least the southern half, for the land was divided by a 73-mile wall built three centuries before us to protect the empire from the native fighters of the north. So, as our forefathers had done, we made our way and reported to our Roman commander in Britain, ancestrally named for the first Artorius, or Arthur._

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**SARMATIA- 452 AD**

A young man rides across the green fields of his homeland on a magnificent black steed. He rides hard, as though the very earth would crack open beneath him if he didn't ride. He rides through streams, through fields, over vast spans of land. Upon reaching his destination, a small village, he stops short. From his meal a man looks up, examining the boy. He takes in his worried appearance.

The boy looks down at the people, his family, and dismounts his horse, running over to where his family sits. "Father." He looks back out across the field as his father comes to stand next to him. "They are here."

Across the field a group of riders can be seen. Instantly the boy's father becomes solemn. He looks at his wife, his expression becoming more and more saddened with each passing second. "The day has come."

His wife, having stood up as well, glances out across the field at the approaching caravan of riders, a fear gripping her and freezing her heart. The unfairness of this day would leave a scar on her heart for the rest of her life, and would leave a sorrow in her she would carry to her grave, but she did not yet know it.

The boy's father places a hand on the boy's shoulders as they survey the riders. Mostly young men, boys no older than he himself and a few Roman generals.

One general rides up to the edge of the village. He surveys the inhabitants with what can only be described as repressed hostility. His gaze stops on the boy whose father stand at his shoulders. "You, boy!" The officer points at him gruffly. "What's you're name?"

The boy looks startled for a moment, but quickly answers. "Lancelot, sir."

"And how old are you, boy?"

"Twelve."

The general now turns to Lancelot's father. "Are they any other boys in the village near this one's age?"

His grip on his son's shoulders tightens as he answers. "No, sir. Next oldest it 7 I'm afraid."

"No, that's too young," the general says. Seeming unhappy but satisfied with this information the general looks back at Lancelot. "You, boy, will be coming with us. You are to be trained to be a knight."

Lancelot looks over his shoulder at his father. "Father?"

The man looks down at his son. For the first time Lancelot can remember his father's eyes are glazed over with tears. "It's alright Lancelot. It's an honor." He pats his son on the shoulder. "It'll be fine."

"Gather only what you'll need for the journey, any spare clothes you have. Hurry along about it."

Lancelot, however, has nothing his wishes to bring. Leaving his family is a burden that ways him down. He wants to tell the general he is crazy if he thinks that he will leave his family, but he knows it will do no good. He had no choice in the matter.

His father leads him over to his horse. "Do not worry, Lancelot."

As he mounts his horse he feels as though a bucket of water has been thrown on him. In one moment his whole life has been changed. He was being torn away from his home and forced to go with a general to train to be a knight. And for what? For Rome.

His father led the horse to the center of the village where everyone had gathered. _They are saying goodbye_, Lancelot realizes.

His father strokes his horse's head, glancing up at his son. "There is a legend that fallen nights return as great horses," he says. "He has seen what awaits you, and he will protect you." It is the only way he knows how to try to comfort his son, and maybe comfort himself.

Lancelot merely stares at his father, not believing what he just said.

"Lancelot! Lancelot!"

The boy turns his head to see his sister running out of their hut, her dark hair braided. She runs up to the horse, dodging around what was left of the fire for the meal and the logs they sat on. "Lancelot." As her father places an arm around her shoulders she reaches up to hand something to him. He meets her halfway, and when he pulls his hand back to look at what he was given he sees a beautiful wooden carving of an animal, stringed like a necklace. He smiles down at her, almost sadly, while she merely gazes up at her brother with nothing less than admiration glowing in her brown eyes.

Lancelot meets the eyes of his worried mother in the crowd. "Don't be afraid," he says, mostly speaking to her. "I will return." In truth, he doesn't believe he will return, but he wants to comfort his mother. He doesn't want her to worry about him. What he doesn't know is a mother always worries about her child.

He glances one last time at his home, at his family, and turns his horse away before he himself can be taken over by sadness. As he makes his way over to the other boys he does not see his mother come up beside his father; does not see the tears run down her face or his father's anguished look.

Lancelot scans the crowd. All the boys seem to have the same feeling as he does; they do not want to be there any more than he does.

"How long will we be gone?" he asks the general.

The general regards him as though he was useless, but answers nonetheless. "Fifteen years, not including the months it'll take to get to your post."

Fifteen years. Those words confirmed what Lancelot feared. If he was lucky enough to return home, nothing would be as it was. His home would be a place he didn't recognize.

The general turns away.

"Lancelot!"

He turns his attention back to his father, who raises his hand in the air and lets out a war cry along with the rest of the village. "Rus!" Before long the other boys chosen to be knights join in.

Lancelot it the only one who remains silent, still intently looking at his family. His gaze lingers a little while longer, trying to imprint this in his memory. This was home. He would need a precious memory to make it through the next fifteen years. Then, he turns away and follows the other soon to be knights away from his home.

**

* * *

**

**Britain- South of Hadrian's Wall- 452 AD**

"Where are you headed Artorius?"

A young brunette boy stops short. He turns to the young girl who spoke to him. "I need to find my mother. I have to show her something."

"Can I see?"

He glances at her, then the item in his hands and back at her. "I suppose. But be careful."

"I promise."

The girl is younger that him, probably about eight, when he himself is thirteen. "Here."

He hands over the item in his hand. She examines it, turning it over in her hands. "It's nice. Who's it for?"

"Pelagius."

The young girl smiles. "I think he'll like it."

"What are you doing out, Rihana? Shouldn't you be at home?"

"I came to say goodbye."

Artorius frowns. "Goodbye? Where are you going?"

Rihana blinks around the black hair that is flying into her face. "Mother has decided it is better for us to leave this place. With father dead she finds no reason to stay. She wants to return home."

Artorius frowns once more. Rihana's father had been a friend of his fathers, and she a friend of his. If she returns home that would mean that he would never be able to see her again. "Are you leaving for good?"

"Yes."

After a slight hesitation he hugs Rihana. "I will miss you."

She smiles, handing Artorius back his gift for Pelagius. "I will miss you as well."

"Rihana!"

Across the way her mother calls for her. She smiles sadly at Artorius, and waves. "Goodbye." She lingers for a moment before running to her mother.

Artorius watches Rihana and her mother until he can no longer see them, then, as if remembering he was supposed to be finding his mother, starts on his way once more. He crosses the little village and makes his way over the grass hills to the body of water where all the cleaning was done. He skims the area, and upon spotting his mother, makes his way down the hill and over to her. "Mother, I finished it."

His mother, a beautiful brunette woman, looks up from her laundry, and at the craft in her son's hand. He is holding a disk. "That's beautiful," she tells him, smiling.

Proud of himself Artorius dips the disk into the water and cleans it off. He runs his fingers over the lumps, over the picture of a man and the words 'Cristi Pelagius'.

"Mother..."

He turns to hand the disk to his other, but finds she is no longer next to him, but further up the hill. Clutching her laundry basket in one hand she waves to her son with the other, then turns to follow the rest of the woman back to their homes as he son waves to her.

Next to him Artorius hears the sound of horses. Looking up he smiles. "Pelagius. For you." He holds out the disk.

A balding Roman man stands before him. He takes the disk and examines it, smiling. "Well done, Artorius." The approval in his voice makes the boy's heart soar. He looks up to this man, and this acknowledgement made him extremely happy.

Pelagius glances down at the boy's face, and hands the disk back to him. "You keep it. Deliver it to me when you come to Rome."

As Pelagius readjusts the bags on his horse, the neighing of horses can be heard from over the hills. Across the fields Artorius can see horseman riding in a line. Upon further inspection he can tell they are boys his age.

Pelagius returns to his side, grabbing his shoulders. "Come. Behold, Arthur. Young knights. If you so choose, they may some day be yours to lead, just as your father before you."

Arthur glances up at Pelagius. "I'm to be their commander?"

"Yes. But with this title comes a sacred responsibility to protect, to defend, to value their lives above your own and, should they perish in battle..." Pelagius kneels down in front of Arthur, grasping his shoulders. "To live your life gloriously in honour of their memory."

"And what of their free will?" Arthur asks, glancing back towards the young knights.

"It has always fallen on to a few to sacrifice for the good of many. The world isn't a perfect place, but perhaps people like you, Arthur, and me and them can make it so." He smiles slightly at the boy, shakes him affectionately, and stands, making his way back to his horse.

Arthur glances once more at the young knights. Their commander. He would be their commander.


	2. Vitel and the Bishop's Arrival

Disclaimer: I nothing in the movie, only the original stuff.

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**Britain- 467 AD**

The land was a vash plane of rich green grass and rolling hills. For someone looking for a new land, an open land, it was the place to go. Seven knights found themselves riding across the familiar expanse of the land. As their commander came to a stop so did the rest of the men, lining up to stare down at the valley bellow them.

In the valley, some distance away, a caravan rode down the path. Two horses drew one carriage. The other was little more than a cart being steered by a soldier whilst another man rode next to him silently. Surrounding them was Roman calvary, each one dressed in full armor and carrying a sword. From time to time the soldiers would glance around as if to make sure that they were in fact alone on the road.

"Ah, as promised, the bishop's carriage," the longhaired knight, Gawain, said. He was the second youngest of the knights.

Galahad, the youngest, smiled. "Our freedom Bors."

"Mm. I can almost taste it." The gruff knight closed his eyes as though he had just been taken to a state of euphoria. Freedom. Something he had waited years for was about to become his, as the others chuckled.

Bors's best friend Dagonet turned to their commander. "And your passage to Rome, Arthur."

Down in the valley the caravan continued moving at its regular pace, unaware that at that very moment, hidden in the woods were warriors. The native fighters that controlled the north of Hadrian's Wall have made their way there to the woods. The one warrior, Vitel, turned to his commander. "Are you sure this is wise, Merlin?"

Merlin, the old leader of the Woads, looked at his warrior for a moment as if trying to figure out his meaning. "I am positive."

"What of your niece? Do you not worry for her safety?"

Merlin turned his attention once more to the caravan moving along the path. The old man was wise, and called by many an evil man. He led those who were thought to be barbarians, so why wouldn't people call him evil. "She is a strong girl," he answered.

"Yes, Merlin, she is, but couldn't this-"

"Vitel, your worry is most appreciated if not ill advised. For the last ten years I have been my niece's guardian. She trusts me with her life. I would not do anything to endanger her." He glanced at Vitel pointedly. "Let us consider the matter closed."

Vitel bit his lip. It was unwise to argue with Merlin. He was a wise man, but sometimes he seemed a little too careless with the lives of others. Still, if he spoke up and voiced his concerns he was sure Merlin would get annoyed with him, and he did not want to be on his leader's bad side, so he merely let the matter drop, and returned his full attention to the caravan from Rome.

Vitel examined his surroundings. Archers were hidden expertly in the trees; warriors with knives, axes and swords filled the ditches of the land. They seemed to be everywhere, and Vitel knew if he was not on their side there would be great reason to be afraid.

An arrow flew threw the trees, in front of Vitel's line of vision. It hit one of the Roman officers square in the chest, knocking him off of his horse. _So it begins_, Vitel thought bitterly. _Another bloody battle that will bring us no closer to once again having our land. A waste._

War cries rang through the air as his people, warriors, rushed forth from the trees. The Roman officer's drew their swords. Vitel made a move to join them in their soon to be bloody fray, but Merlin's hand on his shoulder stopped him. "Stay with me and watch."

From up on the hill one of the knights observed the happenings of those around them. He turned to look at his commander as the natives filled the land. "Woads!"

Arthur didn't need to hear anything else. He drew his sword and charged down the valley to the bishop's caravan, his knights close behind him.

The battle would be a hard one. Vitel knew this. Once he saw the knights making their way down the hill he knew that there was no chance they would succeed. The knights always saw to that. The very thought left a bitter taste in his mouth.

"Kranoc."

Vitel turned to watch his brother come forward. _Why did Merlin call him forth?_ he wondered.

Merlin turned to look at the young Woad. He was just considered old enough to be a good warrior, young still by most standards. "Join them."

Kranoc smiled. This was what he had been waiting for. A chance to fight.

"He is not old enough," Vitel said.

Kranoc glared at his older brother. "I am old enough. You were younger than me when you fought in your first battle."

"I was not as headstrong as you are," Vitel admonished. "You are too young."

"I believe he can fight," Merlin insisted, and then with a nod of his head, he sent Kranoc off into battle.

Vitel glared unbelievingly at his leader. "He will surely be killed."

Merlin gave a graceful shrug. "Perhaps he will. If that is his destiny, better he face it now than run from it."

Kranoc charged out into battle as the knights arrived on the scene. Several of his kinsman and several of the Romans had already fallen. Blood spilled across the land, staining the green grass a rather brown shade of red.

Sword drawn Kranoc lashed out at the nearest Roman officer. The officer easily blocked his attack, but as Kranoc swung again, the weight of the blow knocked the Roman off balance. The Roman fell to the ground with a dull thud, cursing silently to himself in a language Kranoc could not understand. Sensing his chance Kranoc raised his sword and slammed the blade down into the soldier's gut. The man let out a scream, then coughed violently as blood gushed forward from the wound and down his chin.

Pulling his sword out of the dead soldier Kranoc examined the field. Close to him, close enough to fight stood, a warrior. He slashed out at one of Kranoc's kinsmen with one of his two swords. The blade connected with the man's chest, slashing it upon in a rain of blood. The knight didn't even blink as his face was splattered.

Kranoc raised his sword and brought it down, but the knight blocked it. He surveyed the knight, and the knight watched him right back, twirled his swords once and attacked.

Vitel watched as his brother fought the knight. _He'll be killed_, was all Vitel could think. His brother had chosen a battle he could not win, but then something miraculous happened. He knocked the soldier down.

Lancelot coughed loudly after being kicked hard in the stomach. He rolled over onto his stomach and tried to sit up but his eyes kept tearing up and moving was a hassle.

Across the field Tristan turned to glance at his fellow knights. He watched as a Woad lifted up their sword, bent upon driving it into Lancelot's back. He raised his bow intent on killing the Woad before he got the chance, and strung three arrows.

A sharp pain ripped through his arm as an arrow pierced it and momentarily his arm dropped. He however quickly regained composure.

Vitel watched in horror as the man he had just shot released his arrows and all three made contact with his brother's back. Kranoc twitched in pain, dropping his sword. Lancelot took the opportunity to stand up with his swords. He watched the Woad struggle to breathe for a moment, then took his sword and slashed the Woad's neck. It wasn't long before Kranoc lay on the ground dead.

The Woads began to retreat to the woods, finding the battle and impossible one to win.

Bors made his way over to the carriage that held the bishop. As he pulled back the curtains his stomach dropped. There was an arrow sticking out of the man's head.

Gawain followed closely behind and upon seeing the fallen man his anger bubbled up. There last mission, the one that was to free them, was to protect this man, and there he sat dead. He slammed his dagger into the ground, kneeling. His anger would not let him stand any longer.

A frightened voice floated out from under the carriage. "_Gratia plena, Dominus tecum. Benedicta tu in mulieribus et Dominus tecum. Benedicta tu in mulieribus. Benidictus fructus ventris tui, lesus. Benedicta tu in mulieribus..."_

Gawain let out a frustrated sigh and glanced at the man from under his hair. "Save your prayers, boy. Your god doesn't live here."

Not far a Roman officer plunged his sword into a Woad's chest.

Arthur supplied the finishing blow to one Woad, as another came up behind him. Arthur turned and placed the tip of his sword to the Woad's neck.

Mor dropped his axe almost instantly, feeling the cold metal of the knight's sword pressed against his flesh, and kneeled before him. He looked up at the knight with what could be described as nothing less than pure hatred.

"Why did Merlin send you south of the wall?" Arthur even then seemed calm.

Lancelot made his way over to his friend. Who was to say that other Woads would not emerge from the woods and attack just then?

Mor glared up at Arthur and answered him in his native tongue, hoping Arthur would understand him, but not entirely sure. "_Spill my blood with Excalibur and make this ground holy," _he said, leaning his head back to give Arthur better access.

Arthur did not however take that chance. He merely gazed down the Woad. "Pick it up."

Mor gazed at Arthur somewhat confused and swallowed hard, but made no move to retrieve his fallen axe.

Arthur supplied a slight amount of pressure to his blade. "Pick it up," he said once more.

Mor lowered his head. _Why?_ he wondered. _Why would has ask me to retrieve my weapon? What is he planning?_

He would not however finds answers to these questions and trying the knight's patience would do him no good, so slowly he reached down and grasped his axe in his hand, before looking into back at the knight.

The knight however looked over the top of Mor's head and into the woods where Vitel and Merlin stood. Merlin gazed out at the knight and knew he was right. He would spare Mor, or so he assumed. If Arthur had planned on killing him, he would have done so already. Merlin smiled slightly. "He is a great warrior."

Vitel scowled. "He is our enemy."

"Be that as it may, he is a good warrior."

Vitel merely spat.

"Vitel have some faith. It is not he who is our enemy."

"He may not be yours," Vitel said bitterly. "He is however mine."

"As you wish."

Arthur's gaze returned to the Woad kneeling in front of him. He stopped to think about it for a moment, looking at the man intently, and then lowered his blade and walked away, letting him live.

Mor stayed kneeling there for a while. _He let me live_, he thought. _He could have killed me. He should have killed me, and yet he let me live. Why? _He shook his head. _No matter. I will kill this knight. I will help to kill them all._

Lancelot watched his friend walk away from the Woad with a look of disappointment on his face. He should have killed him. He was a knight of Rome and the Woad's were Rome's enemies, so didn't it stand to reason that he would kill them? All of them? So why had he let this one live?

Arthur made his way across the field and to the carriage, glancing momentarily at the Roman soldiers who gathered. "Bors."

"What a bloody mess." Bors was pointing to the inside of the carriage.

Arthur looked in, examining the damage. He gazed upon the dead man, and then turned away. "That's not the bishop." He looked at his knights, and then made his way over towards the Roman officers.

Gawain and Bors had somehow coaxed the man who had been praying under the carriage out. He took their words that the immediate danger was over. "God help us," he mumbled. "What are they?"

Bors glanced at him, trying not to smirk. "Blue demons that eat Christians alive." He suddenly pointed at the man. "You're not a Christian are you?"

The man pressed himself against the carriage, and pressed his hands together in prayer.

Bors examined the man's hands. "Does this really work?" he asked, pressing his hands together and closing his eyes. He began to mumble under his breath, imitating the man before him and then glanced around. "Nothing. Maybe I'm not doin' it right."

From his spot on his horse Tristan hid a smile.

As Arthur approached the band of Roman soldiers both Bors and Gawain raised their weapons, ready to protect themselves and their captain if need be. Most of the Romans pulled their weapons as well.

The Roman general gazed down at Arthur. "Stand down," he said listlessly. Reluctantly Bors put away his weapons followed by the others.

"Arthur!" Arthur was making his way to where the Roman general sat upon his horse. He looked up at the general, no expression readable on his face. "Arthur Castus. Your father's image. I haven't seen you since childhood."

From their perches on their horses Galahad and Tristan examined the scene in front of them. To Galahad, the idea that Arthur knew the general was incomprehensible. It could not be possible. The man had just come from Rome, and to his knowledge, Arthur had never even been to Rome, he merely spoke about it with high regard. To Tristan however, it did not matter. Who Arthur knew was of no consequence. As long as they gained there long awaited freedom Arthur could socialize with whom ever he wanted to.

"Bishop Germanius," Arthur said, his expression never changing. "Welcome to Britain. I see your military skills are still of use to you." He glanced back at the carriage, where Roman officers were removing the dead man. "Your device worked."

Germanius made a sound as if to say the subject was one he cared nothing about. "Ancient tricks of an ancient dog." He laughed slightly and examined the knights sitting upon their horses behind where Arthur stood. "And these are the great Sarmatian knights we have heard so much of in Rome." He climbed off of his horse, brushed himself off and fell in line walking alongside Arthur towards his carriage. "I thought the Woads control the north of Hadrian's Wall."

"They do," Arthur told him. "But they occasionally venture south. Rome's anticipated withdrawal from Britian has only increased their daring."

"Woads?" one of the soldiers asked.

"British rebels who hate Rome," Gawain said, as Tristan, bored already with this conversation, sucked on a wound he had on his hand.

"Men who want their country back," Galahad added.

"Who leads them?" Germanius wanted to know.

"He's called Merlin. A dark magician, some say." To Lancelot telling Germanius this was amusing.

Arthur seemed to disagree with this, and cast Lancelot a scathing glance before turning to the silent scout. "Tristan, ride ahead and make sure the road is clear."

Tristan sucked on his bottom lip while examining his commander and then without further prompting he headed off down the road. He was use to this, being sent ahead when the others stayed behind. He was the scout, the hunter. He was like the wild, free to roam. He, of course, had to return, but he was the one who road ahead, who scouted out the land to ensure everyone's safety. It was both his blessing and his curse. He was gifted with space, but cursed with the job of being the one always alone.

Arthur turned to look at Germanius as the bishop made his way to the carriage. "Please do not worry, Bishop. We will protect you."

Germanius grabbed on to the handle of the carriage door, and turned to look at Arthur. "Oh. I've no doubt, Commander. No doubt." His smile was less than comforting.

As the bishop made his way into the carriage Arthur cast one final glance towards the woods before mounting his horse.

"Dozens don't worry me nearly so much as thousands," the bishop's servant mumbled, following the bishop, only to have the curtains of the carriage close in his face.

Lancelot smirked from upon his horse. "Thousands?"

Vitel watched as the nights and the Romans headed towards Hadrian's Wall. _They will hide there, feeling safe_, he thought bitterly. _But they will never be safe. I will hunt them down and make them pay fro my brother's death_, he vowed. _I will kill them all. Every last one of them, and I will enjoy it._

* * *

(I decided to name that Woad that Arthur spares because you will be seeing him again)

A/N: Reviews love


	3. Hadrian's Wall and Rihana

Disclaimer: I nothing in the movie, only the original stuff.

* * *

**Britain- 467 AD**

Hadrian's wall was a 73-mile long, over 30-feet high stone wonder. It was the one thing that divided the land.

On the southern half of the island lived the Romans, the Sarmatian knights and anyone else who was willing to live among, and be subservient to the Romans. Often times this meant converting to Christianity, for "Pagans" as they were called we considered lowly as opposed to Christians. To be frank the only Pagans who were truly accepted were the knights and that was mostly because they were skilled warriors and not to be messed with. Other Pagans were often treated as little more than servants.

The Woads controlled the northern half of the island. They were the original inhabitants of the island, and still wanted their land back. Considered barbarians by the Romans they were frequently killed for crossing the wall. They did however cross the wall, for one supreme purpose: they wanted to get their land back. The land that had been so unfairly taken from them, their desire to have freedom, was what drove them.

Someone seeing Hadrian's Wall for the first time may find it a wonder, but for the knights it simply meant returning to what was their home while they were in service to Rome.

The seven knights approached the top of the valley. There below them stood the field that led to Hadrian's Wall. Gazing down at it they stopped. This had been their home for years. Now it would be different. Now they would be free. "Well, now that we're free men, I'm gonna drink 'til I can't piss straight."

Gawain turned to look at Bors as he spoke. "You do that every night," he told him.

"I never could piss straight," Bors responded. "Too much of myself to handle. Down there." Gawain merely rolled his eyes. Bors glanced at the other knights. "Well it's a problem." Galahad was trying to contain his laughter. ""No really, it is. It's a problem. It's like-"

"A baby'sarm holding an apple," Gawain, Lancelot and Galahad finished for him.

Tristan gazed on at them with a look of sheer bordom plastered on his normally unreadable face. He had heard this all before, many, many times.

Bors glanced around at the other knights, silent for a moment, before they all began to laugh. Only Tristan remained silent as their laughter filled the way down to the valley.

Walking along the wall as they had so many times before felt different this time. They were soon to be freed. That alone was enough to make even the air seem crisper and clearer. There was something in that sheer fact that made the rest of the world just seem better, no matter what they had faced. They were the lucky ones. Many knights had come to Britain to serve Rome, and these were the ones who remained, the ones who survived, and the ones who would taste freedom.

From the top of the wall a Roman waved a red flag, signaling the bishop's caravan welcome.

"I don't like him, that Roman," Galahad said bitterly. "If he's here to discharge us, why doesn't he just give us our papers?"

"Is _this_ your happy face?" Gawain asked. Bors chuckled loudly, as he so often did, and even Galahad could not hide the smile that appeared on his face, nor the chuckle that escaped his lips. Gawain had a way about him where he could take even the most serious situations, serious comments, and somehow make them funny. "Galahad, do you still not know the Romans?" Gawain inquired of the young knight. "They won't scratch their asses without holding a ceremony." Unfortunately this was only a slight exaggeration.

Bors turned to look at Galahad from his place between the two. "Why don't you just kill him, and then discharge yourself after?" Bors smirked around the drying blood on his face.

Galahad hesitated, as if trying to think of a smart answer. "I don't kill for pleasure," he said bitterly, and then turned pointedly to look at Tristan. "Unlike some."

Tristan glanced at the younger knight, a small smile tugging at his lips, but he resisted. Him smiling was a rare occurrence, and despite the fact that Galahad was trying to appear witty in front of his friends, Tristan knew he had meant what he said. Galahad respected all of the other knights, as they respected him, but if he had to choose ones not to cross they would definitely be Arthur and Tristan. Arthur because he was their commander, and Tristan because he was just what he had accused: a killer. A trained killer, trained by the army, but still a killer, and Galahad couldn't help but believe that the rather quiet knight got some kind of sick pleasure from delivering death to others. "Well, you should try it someday," Tristan responded casually. "You might get a taste for it."

He smiled briefly as Bors and Gawain laughed. They had thought this was merely witty banter, but to Tristan it was a way of life. He did enjoy the kill, not because the act of taking one's life was pleasurable, it was the power it gave him, the control. When you hold someone's life in your hands you control him or her and considering how little control Tristan had over his own life, a little control over someone else's life was the one thing that comforted him. _I do take pleasure in the kill_, he thought casually as he trotted ahead of the other three knights. _I suppose I always have._

"It's a part of you," Bors told Galahad. "It's in your blood."

Galahad however merely shook his head. "No, no, no. No." He laughed slightly. "As of tomorrow this was all just a bad memory."

"Ohh." Bors obviously didn't believe a single word the young knight had just said.

Galahad soon followed Tristan's lead and moved further up in the procession so he was in front of Tristan, but behind Arthur.

_Do you truly believe that, Galahad?_ Tristan wondered. _Could you really be so young and naive as to think that all of this, all of the lives you've taken and blood you spilled did not change you? Do you truly believe freedom will wash it all away? No. Killing someone takes a part of them with you and you cannot leave what you have taken from someone behind so easily._

"I've often thought about what going home would mean after all this. What will I do?" Gawain turned to look at Bors as he spoke. There was such sadness in his voice, and slight longing. "It's different for Galahad. I've been in this life longer than the other. So much for home. It's not so clear in my memory."

_Home doesn't exist in my mind_, Tristan thought. _I've long since forgotten it. I can hardly remember my family's faces or anything of my childhood. Perhaps I've killed too many, taken too much of them into me to remember. Could this be a trade? Could this killing cost me my memories in return? Or perhaps, I forgot home because I believe I would never see it again?_

"Well, you speak for yourself," Bors said. You could almost taste the bitterness in his voice. "It's cold back there and everyone I know is dead and buried. Besides, I have, I think, a dozen children."

"Eleven," Gawain corrected.

_How ironic is it that Gawain knows the amount of children Bors has when Bors himself does not,_ Tristan thought halfheartedly. _Perhaps it is because he wishes for children of his own. A family to call his own._

Bors merely glanced at him, as if he too found it off that Gawain should know how many children he had when he himself wasn't sure. "You listen. When the Romans leave here, we'll have the run of all this place." Gawain glanced at the fields around them as Bors continued to speak. "I'll be governor in my own village and Dagonet will be my personal guard and royal ass-kisser. Won't you, Dag?" Bors glanced behind him at his friend.

Dagonet merely looked back at Bors with a bored expression on his face.

"First thing I will do when I get home is find a beautiful Sarmatian woman to wed," Gawain said.

_Ah, I was right_, thought Tristan, triumphantly. _He wants his own family._

"A beautiful Sarmatian woman?" Bors asked. "Why do you think we left in the first place?" Gawain chuckled as Bors mooed like a cow.

It was then that Tristan decided to ignore the rest of their conversation. He instead focused on the clear sky above him and the land around him, glancing occasionally at the graves of fellow knights just up the hill.

Lancelot rode up to fall in line next to Bors. Bors turned to him as the three men chuckled. "What about you, Lancelot? What are your plans for home?"

Lancelot glanced at his two companions. "Well, if this woman of Gawain's is as beautiful as he claims, I expect to be spending a lot of time at Gawain's house," he answered, only half joking. "His wife will welcome the company."

"I see. And what will I be doing?" Gawain narrowed his eyes slightly.

"Wondering at your good fortune that all your children look like me," Lancelot answered, then smiling he rode ahead to fall in live next to Arthur.

Gawain ignored Bors's laughter and watched Lancelot ride. "Is that before or after I hit you with my ax?" he asked.

Tristan glanced back up at the sky upon hearing a screech. There, circling overhead was his hawk. He held out his arm, the one that had not been pierced by the Woad arrow, and whistled for the bird to come. It flew down, circling over him and landing firmly on his arm. Tristan pulled his arm back to him and glanced at the beautiful bird. "Where you been, now?" he asked, stroking the bird's chest. "Where you been?"

To the other knights it was amazing that someone so distant as Tristan could be so gentle to that bird. He took care of it better than he took care of himself if truth be told. That bird was his seemingly only friend. He watched after her and trusted her as he did no one else. This was something that depended on him, trusted him. She did not care how many men he had killed, or if he enjoyed it. All she cared about was that he cared for her. It was all the hawk knew, and all she needed to know.

"And what will you do, Arthur, when you return to your beloved Rome?" Lancelot asked his best friend.

"Give thanks to God that I survived to see it," Arthur answered, glancing back at his friend.

"You and your God! You disturb me," Lancelot teased, but he was only, however, half joking. He truly did not understand Arthur's obsession with 'God'.

"I want peace, Lancelot. I've had enough," Arthur responded. "You should visit me." Lancelot merely made a sound of dismissal. "It's a magnificent place, Rome," Arthur continued. "Ordered, civilized, advanced."

"A breeding ground of arrogant fools," Lancelot pointed out.

"The greatest minds in all the lands have come together in one sacred place to help make mankind free," Arthur argued.

Lancelot said nothing at first and then leaned towards his friend. "And the women?"

Arthur merely laughed in response as they made their way through the gates and into the village. "Open the gates!" on of the guards yelled, and the smaller gates to the men's living quarters was opened. The knights all rode in, Tristan with his hawk still perched on his arm, the bishop's carriage following behind them.

The bishop climbed slowly out of the carriage.

"Welcome back, Arthur." Standing next to Arthur's horse was the knight's servant. He smiled at the knights, happy to see them home.

"Jols."

Jols smiled once more. "Lancelot."

Lancelot nodded in the man's direction.

The soldiers dismounted their horses. From the gates a woman watched the knights.

Arthur motioned towards the main building. "Bishop, please, my quarters have been made available to you."

Germanius made a face as though he were really tired. "Oh, yes. I must rest." However the truth was that he wanted some time away from the knights and wanted to change out of his bloody armor. He made his way into the building, followed closely by two Roman soldiers.

Bors turned quickly to his left and spotted a red-haired woman standing there. He chuckled lewdly at her, approaching her slowly. The woman reached out and slapped him. "Where have you been?" Vanora asked sourly.

"Oh..."

"I've been waiting for you," Vanora continued.

Bors gazed at her lovingly. "Oh, my little flower. Such...passion!" He kissed the woman, and though she fanned resistance she was soon kissing him back. He pulled away from her and glanced around. "Where's my Gilly? Gilly?" He leaned down and scooped up a little boy with dark brown hair. "You been fighting?" he asked the boy.

"Yes."

"You been winning?"

"Yes."

He touched the boy's nose affectionately. "That's my boy. Come on, all my other bastards!"

Bors wrapped his arm around Vanora's shoulders and they made there way threw the city, there children cheering and following behind them.

* * *

"Vanora!" 

The red-haired woman spun around to see who had called her name and smiled warmly at the dark haired girl in front of her. "Ana. You startled me."

"Sorry. I just wanted to know what the commotion was up at the fort?"

"The bishop arrived from Rome today."

The girl felt her smile begin to slip. "The bishop? To free the knights?"

"Yes," Vanora said, smiling. "As of tomorrow they will all be free. They will all be heading home."

"Oh. That's...that's great."

Vanora shook her head at the girl. "You don't sound as though you are happy for them."

"I am, Vanora, I really am. It is just...I will be sad to see them go. It will be so quiet around here without them." She smiled sadly. "And you and the children. I assume you will be leaving with them."

"Well, yes, I plan to."

"I will miss you greatly, Vanora. You are one of the few people here who I consider a friend. I hope I'm not wrong."

"No, you aren't wrong."

Ana nodded, as if satisfied with the answer. "Good. I have had very few friends in my life. I shall truly miss you. And the children. They are a joy to have around, so full of life and wonder. Without them around life will seem so much quieter. I shall miss their laughter." She hoisted the basket under her arm up higher. "So the bishop's arrival went well?"

"There was a slight problem."

"Oh? What?"

"Bors told me that they were attacked."

The young girl's eyes widened as she gazed at her older friend. "Attacked? Attacked by who?"

"The Woads."

Ana frowned, staring at the ground. "Oh." The news made her heart drop. Every time the natives attacked someone relations only grew worse. "Was anyone hurt?"

"Mostly scratches, bumps and bruises," Vanora told her. "Tristan however got an arrow through his arm."

"Was it serious?"

"No. Bors said it he didn't even let it slow him down, but that is hardly surprising. Tristan, you have seen him, the rather quiet dark haired one with the tattoos on his face, well, he's the natural hunter. Or that's what Bors tells me. He said that only death would slow Tristan down."

"Perhaps, but they shall never know. Tomorrow they will be free and soon after they will travel home." Ana shook her head sadly. "Soon everyone will be leaving this place. They will go to Sarmatia or to Rome. This whole village will be deserted and I will be left alone. Won't you miss this place?"

Vanora thought about it for a moment. "Yes, I will miss this place. I have been here for such a long time. I have many memories here."

"Not all good ones," Ana pointed out.

"No, not all good ones," Vanora conceited. "Still, even the bad memories, I will treasure them. It was here that I met Bors, here that I had my children. So much has happened here. If I cannot remember both the good and the bad times, then why remember anything at all?"

"You are right, Vanora, as always," Ana said. "Well, I must be going. You are surely going to be late for work if you do not leave soon."

Vanora nodded. "I suppose so."

"See you soon."

As Ana made her way back towards her home she heard her friend call her name. "Rihana!"

The girl spun around to look back at her friend. "Yes?"

"You know you would be able to come with us. To Sarmatia that is."

Rihana smiled, almost sadly. "I'm afraid not, Vanora, but thank you for thinking of that." With one last glance she started off for her home again.

* * *

A/N: Reviews are love so please leave them. 


	4. A Final Order

Disclaimer: I nothing in the movie, only the original stuff.

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**Britain- 467 AD**

The Sarmatian knights sat around the round table in their meeting room, goblets of wine in front of them. There were forty seats around the table, most of which had been filled no more than ten years ago. Now these seven were all that remained of the brave warriors that protected the Roman Empire. These seven who had spilled the blood of enemies of Rome, and buried their companions, their brothers, their fellow knights. The faces of their dying companions would linger in their minds for years to come, regardless of their desire to rid themselves of those horrible memories.

Tristan raised his goblet to his lips and took a long drink. For him wine was no escape from reality as the other warriors thought. Getting drunk was useless to him, but perhaps tonight he would join them, not because he was celebrating their freedom, for he would not celebrate. He believed that celebration was wrong. This was a time of mourning for him because in a short amount of time the life he had known would be over, and then he would no longer know what to do with himself. As long as he was a knight he knew what he was, knew what was expected of him, knew what his duty was. When he was free what would become of him? What would he do then? There were no jobs for hired mercenaries in Sarmatia. What would he do then? What job would he take? What skill did he have really? Tracking, hunting and killing. Hardly the makings of a common villager.

Around him his fellow knights laughed.

Arthur stood to address his knights, his friends. "Let us not forget that we are the fortunate ones," he said.

_How could we forget?_ Tristan thought bitterly. _For as long as I live I shall see their dying faces, hear their voices. I will see their blood rushing out of them, and no matter how many I kill it will never avenge them. They are gone, and I live, we live. How can we not remember them when there is no justice in this world? Arthur, my dear commander, do you not understand? I would give my life for theirs in an instant. Theirs mean so much more than mine. So, you tell me, Arthur, how can I forget them?_

The knights all stood one by one, some clasping their goblet in their hands. Tristan found his grip almost painful. "Let us raise our wine to those gallant and extraordinary men we have lost," Arthur continued, as the men held their goblets out towards the center of the table. "But who will be remembered for all eternity," he finished.

All of the men lifted their goblets to their lips and sipped the their wine. Tristan however downed the rest of his.

"To freedom," Bors said, holding out her goblet.

"To freedom," the other knights echoed, holding out their goblets in turn.

As the men placed themselves back in their seats they glanced around at each other.

"I must admit, I never thought this day would come," Lancelot said, smiling ruefully. "Freedom. I never thought I would live to see it."

"You always look at the downside of things," Gawain laughed, shaking his head. "How many times did you think we would all die in battle? How many times did we prove you wrong? More times than I can count and yet you still assume the worst. I cannot understand you."

"That is because you understand very little." Galahad glanced at his friend while he spoke. "Arthur is right however. We are the lucky ones. We lived while others died."

"Many people die in battle," Tristan said. The others stared at him. They hadn't expected him to speak up. Normally when they were all in deep conversation he would keep to himself for that was his way. He wasn't the type of person to speak up without good reason, and that was usually to inform them of danger or to give his opinion when it was asked of him. To hear Tristan offer up an opinion, or to speak without being spoken to, was an event that the knights had maybe experienced a dozen or so times before. "It is what battle is all about. If you cannot accept that then you don't know anything about being a warrior."

They were all silent for a while. Of course it was Tristan who turned the mood sour.

Gawain cleared his throat. "So, Bors, aren't expecting that twelfth child are you?"

Bors let out a snort. "Not if I have a say in it. Eleven is enough."

Galahad merely shook his head. "And you love each and every one of them."

* * *

Inside Arthur's room Germanius examined his surroundings while his servant, Horton, unpacked several things. Germanius made his way over to Arthur's desk. There sat a tablet. The bishop briefly examined it, but soon a disk on the desk caught his attention. He took it in his hand and examined it intently. "Pelagius," he said bitterly, running his finger of the surface. 

Horton glanced up from what he was doing and over to Germanius. "Very kind of Arthur to give up his room." Germanius's attention was drawn away from the disk and to Horton. Horton hesitated for a moment. "But, of course, it is to be expected," he added.

Germanius turned his attention back to the disk and with a sigh he tossed it over his shoulder.

The disk landed next to the fire, shattering, and the image of Pelagius forever broken.

There was a knock at the door and when it opened Jols came in. "Sir," he said tiredly. "I'm here to escort you to the fortress hall."

Germanius glanced at Horton, then with out so much as a word exited the room and headed down the hall.

Horton reached over to where the bishop's possessions were and grabbed a wooden box. The box itself was beautifully crafted, the wood crisp and beautiful. He walked over and stood in front of Jols. "When my master meets with your knights, he must be seated last and he must be seated at the head of the table," he told Jols loftily.

Jols had to make himself keep from smiling. He bit the inside of his cheek briefly. "Your master can plunk his holy ass wherever he chooses."

Horton smiled, seemingly satisfied with the answer. Little did he know what Jols meant.

* * *

Horton entered the fortress hall to the sound of laughter. His walk was full of conceit. He stood there, glancing out at the room. His expression changed instantly. This was not what he expected. The table was round. He shook it off and continued his duty. "His Eminence, Bishop Naius Germanius." 

The bishop entered and stopped short, examining the table. He had expected to sit at the head of the table, but there was no head. The table was round and there was no way to tell which place was which.

The knights all rose, honoring the bishop at they knew they should, though Tristan took his dear time. Sucking up to the bishop may help them get their discharge papers sooner, but he felt no need to honor someone of a religion he didn't believe in.

As Jols entered behind the bishop Horton turned to him. "A round table? What sort of evil is this?" he asked.

Germanius surveyed Arthur while Horton spoke.

Jols glanced at the table and then back to Horton. "Arthur says for men to be men they must first all be equal," he explained, while servants entered from behind them.

"I was given to understand there would be more of you," Germanius said, looking out towards the knights. He was still seething at the fact that there was no head of the table but he tried his best to not show it.

"There were," Arthur said, looking towards his knights as well with warmth in his eyes. "We have been fighting for 15 years, Bishop," he reminded him.

_What a fool,_ Tristan thought bitterly. _After fifteen years there are bound to be fewer of us than there were to begin with. Only a fool would believe we would all be here, alive and waiting for our freedom. Oh, how I hate this Roman already._

"Oh, of course," the bishop responded as though he had known it and merely forgot. He reached over to the tray that one of the servants held and lifted up the largest goblet. "Arthur and his knights have served with courage," Germanius said, walking over to closest seat on Arthur's left. "...to maintain the honor of Rome's empire on this last outpost of our glory. Rome is most indebted to you noble knights."

Across the table Horton held a goblet out towards Tristan. He turned to look at the man then at the goblet and reluctantly took it from him.

"To your final days, as servants to the empire," the bishop's said as the knights held onto their goblets.

Lancelot glanced up from his goblet and towards the bishop. "Day. Not days," he corrected bitterly.

Germanius waved the comment off with a shake of his hand and took his seat. Some of the knights were already treated, Tristan included, before Bors and Dagonet took their seats again.

"The Pope's taken a personal interest in you," Germanius informed Arthur. "He inquires after each of you, and is curious to know if your knights have converted to the word of Our Savior or...?"

"They retain the religion of their forefathers. I have never questioned that," Arthur answered, giving his knights a reassuring glance.

"Of course, of course." Germanius however looked highly disappointed. "They are pagans. Hm?" He said the word 'pagans' as though it was a sin within itself. Galahad tensed at the tone but held his tongue. Germanius sighed before he continued. "For our part, the Church has deemed such beliefs innocence, but you, Arthur, your path to God is through Pelagius? I saw his image in your room." He turned to glance at the commander.

At the mention of his mentor Arthur instantly felt a great happiness. "He took my father's place for me," Arthur told him. "His teachings on free will and equality have been a great influence. I look forward to our reunion in Rome." For a moment Arthur looked lost in thought.

"Ah." Germanius glanced away from Arthur's face for a moment. "Rome awaits your arrival with great anticipation," he informed him. "You are a hero. In Rome, you will live out your days in honor and wealth." He let out a small chuckle. "Alas...Alas, we are all but players in an ever-changing world." From behind him came Horton, carrying the wooden box from the bishop's possessions. "Barbarians from every corner are almost at Rome's door," the bishop told them as Horton placed the box on the table in front of the bishop. "Because of this, Rome and the Holy Father have decided to remove ourselves from indefensible outposts, such as Britain." He stood up and opened the box. The soldiers all stood. "What will become of Britain," the bishop continued. "...is not our concern anymore. I suppose the Saxons will claim it soon."

"Saxons?" Arthur glanced at the bishop.

"Yes," Germanius answered. "In the north a massive Saxon incursion has begun."

"The Saxons only claim what they kill," Lancelot spat.

"And only kill everything," Gawain added.

"So you would just leave the land to the Woads," Galahad said disbelievingly. "And I risked my life for nothing."

"Hm." The bishop forced an obviously fake smile. "Gentlemen," he stated, holding up the open box, which contained the scrolls that would grant them their freedom. "...your discharge papers with safe conduct throughout the Roman Empire. But first I must have a word with your commander." All of the men glanced at each other. "In private."

"We have no secrets," Arthur informed him, glancing at his knights.

Germanius slammed the box shut in frustration.

Lancelot glanced down at his goblet and grabbed it. "Come. Let's leave Roman business to Romans." He raised his goblet as if in a solute and drank the last of the wine in his goblet.

Tristan glanced at the bishop with distaste. _I greatly dislike this man_, he thought sourly. _And I do not trust him wanting to speak to Arthur alone. He would only do that if he was afraid to let us hear what he had to say._

Dagonet left his goblet on the table and walked past Bors, patting him briefly on the back. "Let it go, Bors."

Tristan followed after Dagonet, goblet in hand.

Bors lingered for a moment, glaring in the bishop's direction before he too headed out with the rest of them, goblets in hand.

Once Germanius was sure that the men were gone he turned to Arthur. "Rome has issued a final order for you and your men," he told him.

"Final order?" Arthur asked in distaste.

"You are to travel north to rescue the family of Marius Honorius and return, in particular, with Marius's son, Alecto," Germanius informed him. "Alecto is the Pope's favorite godchild and pupil. It is his destiny to become a bishop, perhaps even pope one day."

"On this day you ask this of my men," Arthur said in disbelief. "On _this_ day." Arthur stood up with a sigh and paced around his seat of a while, then looked back at the bishop. "They have risked their lives for 15 years for a cause not of their own. And now, on the day they are to be liberated, you send them on a mission, which is far more dangerous than any other they have undertaken. You tell me, Bishop, how do I go to my men and tell them that instead of freedom I offer death?"

"If your men are truly the knights of legend, perhaps some will survive," the bishop said dismissively. "If it is God's will. Your men want to go home, and to get home they need to cross the entire breadth of the Roman Empire. Deserters would be hunted down like dogs. Will you defy the Pope, Arthur? Rome? God himself?"

"Everything I've done has been for the Church and for Rome," Arthur said, barely containing his anger. "Do not mistake a loyal soldier for a fool, Germanius."

"Would you leave a defenseless Roman boy, destined to lead our Church, at the hands of the Saxons? Fulfill this mission, and your men will receive their discharge. Their papers will be waiting here the moment they return." Germanius leaned over the box and lifted it into his hands and turned to look at Arthur once more. "You have my word."

As the bishop made his way out the door Arthur's voice stopped him. "You think very hard upon that vow, Bishop, for I will hold you to it. Break it, and no Roman legion, papal army, nor God himself will protect you. That is my word."

* * *

A/N: I know most of this is from the movie but I need to put this in there and there was a little bit of talking from the others, a little interaction and a little bit of Tristan's thoughts. 

Reviews are love so please leave them.


	5. Meetings

Disclaimer: I nothing in the movie, only the original stuff.

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**Britain- 467 AD**

The tavern was nothing more than an open area with seats, tables, a simple wooden bar and enough alcohol for the entire army to drink for the next year. It was however a place where both knights and Roman officers could go to relieve some stress if they so desired. Most went to drink, while others went for other forms of entertainment such as woman, betting and other forms of competitions. It was there only real place to relax and spend time together, and despite the fact that all of the knights were exhausted from their battle earlier that morning they felt the need to celebrate their newfound freedom.

Tristan stood silently to the side, a crisp and shinny green apple held gingerly between his hands. He gazed out upon his other knights with a sort of detached way about him. The knights would often celebrate a victory by coming to the tavern, and it was an excuse for Bors to spend more time with Vanora, for she worked there. Upon thinking of him Tristan's dark eyes skipped around trying to find the gruff knight, and he spotted him close to the bar cradling his youngest child in his arms. _I wonder if he realizes how much he cares for those children_, Tristan wondered. _He probably doesn't. After all, Bors was never accused of being the smartest of us._

Still something inside Tristan twisted as the seed of jealousy began to blossom. Bors had found some form of happiness in this forsaken land. He had found a woman he truly loved-even if he would never actually say those words-and together they had a family, regardless of them not being married. He had eleven children that he adored. He had found a reason to live. _What will I live for once freedom is granted? There is nothing left for me to do. Nothing for me back home. Nothing here either. When I am free, my life will no longer have meaning._

He was shaken out of his thoughts by the sound of laughter. He turned to look at Galahad and Gawain, who were already on the verge of being quite drunk. He watched with a bored detachment as Gawain used his foot to kick a dagger off of the ground and caught it in his hand. He pulled his hand back and let the dagger fly, sending it straight into the seat of a stool perched on the near by pillar. The young knight let out a rather drunk laugh. Galahad, who had been sitting in the company of the lovely Hallie, laughed into his container of alcohol. Hallie even smiled briefly as Gawain rent to retrieve the dagger from the stool.

Across the way Lancelot sat at one of the other tables. At the table as well were two Roman officers, gambling away their hard earned money with him.

"She gave me fleas," one of them exclaimed drunkenly.

"You better hope they're fleas," the other one responded.

Lancelot scowled at his luck. Tonight wasn't his night. One of the Roman officers had managed to beat him. As the man began to gather his belongings, Lancelot drew his dagger out and imbedded it into the table where the money had been. "Best of three."

Bors however was ignoring most of the other people in the bar, focusing on the small child he held in his arms. The child was his youngest son. He gazed down at the child's face as he held him close. He was filled with fatherly pride, though he did not understand it. He was merely a baby and had not yet done anything extraordinary for him to be proud of. The baby cooed happily as Bors swayed him slightly.

"Who wants another drink?"

Bors watched as Vanora made her way over to the table where Lancelot sat with the Romans and poured some more wine into one of their cups.

"Ahh!" Lancelot pulled Vanora down onto his lap and she gave a weary sigh. "When are you going to leave Bors and come home with me?" he asked, pressing his face into her neck.

Vanora however ignored this move and merely slapped him gingerly on the face. "My lover is watching you," she spat, pulling herself away from him and making her way across the tavern to serve others, ignoring it when Lancelot's hand tapped her on her rump.

Lancelot turned to look at Bors, a smirk on his face. Bors gazed down at the child in his arms, pulling him away slightly as to look at the child's face. The little blue-eyed baby immediately began to cry. He wanted to be back against his father's body where he felt warm. Bors's eyes skipped from the child to Lancelot and then back to the crying child in his arms as Lancelot began to chuckle softly. "Mmm...you look nothing like him," he said to him proudly. "You're all Bors." He pressed the baby back to his chest to calm his crying.

From behind Galahad, Tristan watched as the youngest knight threw a dagger into the same stool Gawain had earlier. It landed much closer to the middle than Gawain's had, and from his seat, Gawain let out a sound of frustration. Hallie squeezed his shoulders gently as if to encourage him.

Tristan raised his own dagger in his hand, blade pressed between his fingers, his apple in the other. The arm with which he was preparing to throw the dagger was the same that had been pierced earlier by a Woad arrow. His arm was still a little sore, and Tristan knew that if he used it too much that he would pay for it in the morning, but a small part of him wanted to join the other knights in their fun. He raised the dagger, pulled his arm back and let it fly. The tip of the dagger landed directly in the center of the handle of Galahad's. From behind Tristan Jols chuckled. The quiet knight couldn't help but letting a small smile of satisfaction spread across his face.

Galahad turned to the other knight in disbelief. "Tristan..." Tristan took a bite from his apple to hide his smile.

"How do you do that?" Gawain gazed up at Tristan from his seat as Hallie moved her hands to rest on his chest.

Tristan leaned down a little and pointed towards the stool. "I aim for the middle," he said around his apple. He said it as though it should be obvious and almost a bit condescendingly. Gawain merely looked at him as if to say that the quiet knight's answer wouldn't help him to be able to do the same, but at the same time the look held admiration, the kind one warrior felt for another.

"Oh, they want more!" Vanora sighed, making her way over to the bar where Bors stood. She placed her empty wine jug on the wood with a bit of frustration.

Bors turned to her, their child still cradled in his arms. "Here. Be a mother to your son."

A smile spread across the woman's face as she looked at her son. She held out her arms. "Oh, come here."

Bors placed the little boy in his mother's arms, and turned to see his best friend heading towards him. "Dagonet, where you been? We've got plans to make." Dagonet took a drink from one of the wine cups but said nothing. Bors looked towards Vanora. "Here, please. Sing."

"No," Vanora said wearily, shaking her head.

"Just a last one."

"No, I'm trying to work."

"Come sing." He was already dragging her towards the center of the tavern. "Shut up!" Dagonet turned to watch his friend lead the fair Vanora away. "Vanora will sing," Bors informed the people.

"No, no." Vanora was still rapidly shaking her head.

There were chants of 'sing! sing!' ringing through out the tavern. Dagonet leaned against a near by pole.

"Sing about home," someone said.

Gawain cupped his hands around his mouth. "Don't drop the baby."

Everyone watched as Vanora stood in the center of the tavern. "Please," Bors pleaded.

Vanora made sure her son was secure in her arms before she started to sing. As she did Dagonet smiled slightly. Vanora must have really loved Bors to give in like she did.

_Land of bear and land of eagle_

_Land that gave us birth and blessing_

_Land that called us ever homewards_

_We will go home across the mountains_

_We will go home_

_We will go home_

_We will go home across the mountains_

_We will go home singing our song..._

Throughout the tavern the song affected each of the knights differently. Bors stood there proudly watching Vanora sing. Home. Home was there with her, but soon he would be free. That was home to him. Freedom whilst with Vanora. He could taste that freedom on the back of his tongue.

Lancelot gazed off into the distance. Home? What was that? There was nothing left home for him, and this was not the end he had hoped for. Then there was that feeling in the pit of his stomach, the feeling he had that something horrible was about to happen. He tried to ignore the feeling by taking a sip of his wine, but that bittersweet feeling had settled like rocks in his abdomen.

Tristan chewed on his apple, then gazed down at it in distaste. _I have no home_, came his bitter thoughts. _Home is gone. I have only what is here, what is now. When all is done I will have nothing and I will never be home. I don't understand their happiness, but I envy it. Home? What is home anyway? Isn't home where you are? Where you live? Then isn't this home? If not then what is it? Leaving this place cannot change things all that much._ From the corner of his eyes had glanced at Galahad. _He wants to leave. He believes in the existence and the goodness of home. Perhaps it is his young age. Perhaps he is just naive. Perhaps he remembers what I have forgotten. Maybe he merely still has hope. Somehow we are all lost._

Galahad was the only one who seemed to be enjoying the idea of home. He quietly sang along, happy with the idea. Home. He could almost smell it, taste it on the back of his tongue. He could feel it in the air as though he were already there. Yes, they would go home, and then they would be happy again. They could live normal lived, have families, be free to make their own choices without worrying about being killed in battle or having your friend die in front of you. Galahad itched for it. He closed his eyes, imagining what life would be like when he was home.

Gawain gazed at Vanora over Hallie's shoulder and tightened, if only fractionally, the hold he had on her arm. His eyes jumped downwards. Home sounded nice. Perhaps he would have a family and a real job, but what of all that had happened? How could he live a normal life with the memories of what he had done haunting him? He was used to this life. It was what he was, who he was. He didn't remember how to be normal, so, could he adjust to being normal and free again? That was the big question.

Dagonet swallowed as he stood by the edge of the tavern. He had always thought he would die in battle. Being free was never an option to him, and neither was going home, so he did not know how to feel. To be free and to be able to go home was a dream he had once when he first arrived in Britain, but once he saw the cemetery of the fallen knights, that dream shattered. He felt it in his gut that he would find Britain his final resting place, so the idea scared him but somehow also intrigued him. Freedom. Such a strange notion, and yet on in his grasp. He wasn't sure if he wanted it though, if he wanted home.

Arthur made his way to the tavern, his mind burdened. How would he tell his knights they were not yet to be freed? How could he explain to them that once more they had to risk their lives? That his mission was more dangerous than any other before? That they would be crossing into enemy territory and that there was a better chance of them dying and returning on the very day they were told they were done? The sound of singing floated to his ears as he reached the tavern's edge. He glanced up and stood there, watching Vanora sing, watching his knights celebrate that which he was about to take away.

_...hear our singing, hear our longing_

_We will go home across the mountains_

_We will go home_

_We will go home_

_We will go home across the mountains_

Arthur turned away. He could not do this, not now. It was too much. He would have been able to leave too, had Jols not spotted him. "Arthur!"

Arthur turned sharply towards the man's voice, and though he wanted to be angry at having been seen he couldn't. Perhaps this was a sign from God that he should talk to his men now instead of later. Maybe not. Either way he knew he had to tell them. There. Then.

"Arthur!" The excitement in Galahad's voice made something twist deep in Arthur's chest. _How can I hurt them all now? How can I disappoint my friends, my brothers?_

Gawain said a short good-bye to Hallie, as he, Galahad, and Dagonet, who had since placed his cup on a nearby table, made their way to their commanding officer. Arthur made his way further into the tavern trying to rid the feeling of dread in his stomach. His stomach knotted even tighter as he watched Bors kiss Vanora and glance down at their youngest child. _How can I tell him that he may die? That me may never see her again?_ _How can I tell him he may never see his children again? That he may never see them grow up?_,he wondered as his knights approached them.

"You're not completely Roman yet, right?"

Bors placed his hand on his chest. "Rus!" He yelled out his battle cry as his best friend placed an arm around his shoulders. Tristan and Lancelot were the last two to join the other knights. Both had a feeling of dread in their stomachs.

_He has come with terrible news!_ Tristan's mind screamed. _That is why he is here. The look on his face assures that._ It was, however, useless to worry so Tristan stood there, expressionless, slicing off small pieces of his apple, and chewing on them in some vain attempt to keep his mind clear.

Arthur gazed at his knights, and summoned the courage to speak. "Knights...brothers in arms...your courage has been tested beyond all limits."

Bors nodded. "Yes."

Arthur took a deep breath as though that in and of itself would make what he was about to say any easier. "But I must as you now for one further trial."

"Drink." Galahad nearly spit out his own drink as Bors suggested that to their commander, chuckling slightly.

"We must leave on a final mission for Rome before our freedom can be granted," he informed them.

Tristan glanced up at him. _I knew it_, he thought. _I knew freedom would not be just granted. It is never enough for Romans. Nothing is ever enough._

Gawain, Galahad and Bors laughed. Surely this had to be a joke, right? Arthur wanted to get them to worry and that was why he said that. They were free. It was promised. There was no further test. Lancelot however seemed to know Arthur was not lying. Anger burned deep inside of him and threatened to consume his very soul. Dagonet and Tristan were the only ones who seemed to be unchanged by this bit of information. They had both expected something to go wrong, and though Dagonet was disappointed in this news, Tristan was not. He was the only one.

As Gawain started to walk away Arthur spoke again. "Above the wall, far in the North, there is a Roman family in need of rescue. They are trapped by Saxons." Lancelot turned to look away at this point. He knew then. Arthur was not lying. They were being sent out once more. "Our orders are to secure their safety," Arthur continued.

"Let the Romans take care of their own," Bors said rather bitterly.

Gawain gazed on Arthur in disbelief. "Above the wall is Woad territory," he reminded him, but he knew there was no reminder needed. How could any of them forget that?

"Our duty to Rome, if it ever was a duty is done," Galahad spat. "Our pact with Rome is done." _This was not supposed to happen_, the youngest knight thought desperately. _We were supposed to be free, supposed to go home. This was not supposed to happen!_

Anger bubbled up inside of Bors so strong he could not contain it, and it spilled out into his words like liquid fire. "Every knight here has laid his life on the line for you," he spat bitterly, shaking a hand in his commander's direction, though Arthur seemed unchanged. Bors pointed at Arthur sharply. "For you. And instead of freedom, you want more blood? _Our_ blood?" There was a brief pause and Tristan wondered if the man would storm off, but Bors remained as did is anger. "You think more of Roman blood than you do of ours?" he asked, motioning around him at the other knights.

Tristan bit into his apple, realizing that he had never seen Bors so outraged. Bors was the one who always spoke of the unfairness of the Romans, and here he was seeming surprised that they broke their word. His anger was unmatched, and they had all seen his anger before, for Bors was the type of man to let his emotions get the best of him, to anger easily, especially in a matter that concerned the safety of his fellow knights.

"Bors! These are our orders." Arthur's voice held a distinct tone of finalization. He would not try to convince them it was right, but remind him that as the situation was they had to follow Rome's orders. His stern voice only contradicted the feeling of hatred and disappointment he had in the pit of his stomach. "We leave at first light, and when we return your freedom will be waiting for you. A freedom we can embrace with honor."

"I am a free man!" Bors yelled. His eyes were misted over, partially from the alcohol he had consumed, partially with anger, and the rest with pure sadness. In the background Bors's son began to cry. "I will choose my own fate!"

"Yeah, yeah. We're all going to die someday," Tristan said listlessly. The other knights, who would have seemed more startled at him speaking up if they had not all been so tense, merely gazed at him in wonder. Tristan continued to slice at his apple, his eyes not having left it yet. "If it's a death from a Saxon hand that frightens you.." he said, glancing up at the others. His gaze landed squarely on Galahad, the youngest and most headstrong. He lifted a bit of apple to his lips. "...stay home."

Galahad turned to look at Tristan, anger flaring within him, followed secondly by disbelief. He gazed at the ever-calm Tristan as he crunched on his food with hatred. "Listen," he spat. "...if you're so eager to die, you can die right now!"

Lancelot stepped in-between the two men, fearing the worst. "Enough." He pushed away Galahad's arm so that he could not reach Tristan. "Enough!"

"I've got something to live for!" The youngest knight was livid.

"The Romans have broken their word," Dagonet cut in, speaking for the first time. Tristan glanced at him curiously. "We have the word of Arthur. That is good enough. I'll prepare."

_Couldn't have said it better myself_, the scout thought.

As Dagonet turned to leave Tristan joined him. He of course would go as well. He would never have opposed this. It was his purpose in life, to fight, to track, to kill. Without it his world would fall into chaos.

"Bors?" The gruff knight turned to stare at Dagonet as the man spoke to him. "You coming?"

"Of course I'm coming!" Bors yelled, as though the question itself was stupid. "Can't let you go on your own! You'll all get killed!" he yelled after Dagonet and Tristan as they headed out of the tavern. He turned back towards the rest of the knights. "I'm just saying what you're all thinking!" Turning away he took a breath. "Vanora'll kill me," he mumbled to himself as he followed after Dagonet and Tristan.

"Do you think they'll grant our freedom after this mission?" Tristan asked Dagonet carelessly.

"I do not know, but I trust the word of Arthur. For me that is assurance enough."

Gawain returned to where he had stood before, taking a gulp out of his cup. "And you, Gawain?" Arthur asked him.

Gawain swallowed, looking at Arthur for a short while, and then nodding reluctantly. "I'm with you." He glanced briefly at his friend. "Galahad as well."

Galahad looked at his friend in disbelief. How could he just decide something like that for someone? Gawain may be his best friend but he had no right to choose something like that for him. Gawain however paid the look no mind. In not time Galahad would forgive him, he was sure. Instead of responding he merely started out of the tavern. He laughed bitterly, pouring the last of his alcohol out of the jug and slamming it to the ground. It shattered, and after giving his commander a final angry look he followed after Gawain.

Arthur lingered for a moment, gazing where his knights had gone before he himself left the tavern, going back the way he had come.

* * *

Arthur made his way to the stables. He had to be where he wouldn't see his knights. He was feeling such guilt right then that he was sure he would loose his sanity if he was forced to talk to them just then. He had never felt guilt like this before. If he could he would take back the last few minutes, he would change Rome's mind about sending his knights out, but it was useless. Rome's will would not change. Rome felt what Bors accused of Arthur himself; Rome cared more about this one Roman boy than all of those Pagan Sarmatian knights. Arthur hated to admit it though, that the Rome he thought so highly of could put one life above the lives of his knights, but it was true. He pushed that thought to the back of his mind though. Thinking that would do no good at the moment and would only serve to further his anger and confusion. 

Arthur lifted up one of the near by saddles, holding up the leather weight in his hands. He stood there for a moment, as if trying to remember where he wanted to move the saddle to in the first place. His anger bubbled up inside of him. It was wrong. He shouldn't have to send his knights out to certain death. He should be able to give them their freedom, give them their release papers. He gripped the saddle as hard as he could and then threw it to the ground harshly in frustration. He stood there silently for a moment letting his anger simmer. "O merciful God, I have such need of your mercy now," he prayed, glancing down at the ground. "Not for myself, but for my knights, for this is truly their hour of need." From the doorway Lancelot appeared, glancing at Arthur in disdain. He could not believe that Arthur was once again praying to his god. "Deliver them from the trials ahead-" Arthur continued. "And I will repay you a thousandfold with any sacrifice you ask of me. And if, in your wisdom, you should determine that that sacrifice must be my life for theirs, so that they may once again taste the freedom that has so long been denied to them, I will gladly make that covenant." Lancelot slowly made his way over to his friend, all the while confused. "My death will have a purpose. I ask no more than that."

"Why do you always talk to God and not to me?" There was a slight trace of anger in the knight's voice. Arthur turned around sharply, silently cursing himself for not hearing Lancelot approach. _Tristan would have heard him_, Arthur decided. _But I am no Tristan_. Lancelot however was continuing to talk. "Oh, pray to whomever you pray that we don't cross the Saxons."

"My faith is what protects me, Lancelot," Arthur informed him. "Why do you challenge this?"

Lancelot glanced around the barn, but his mind lingered on what Arthur had just told them. He made his way towards Arthur and leaned on the wooden plank that divided them. "I don't like anything that puts a man on his knees."

"No man fears to kneel before the god he trusts. Without faith, without belief in something, what are we?"

Lancelot looked down briefly. "To try and get past the Woads in the North is insanity," he shot back.

"Them we've face before."

"Not north of the wall!" He rounded the wooden racks that divided them so he was closer to his friend. "How many Saxons? Hm?" He raised an eyebrow in question. "How many!" When Arthur didn't answer immediately Lancelot dropped his gaze for a moment and they fell into silence. Then he looked up again. "Tell me. Do you believe in this mission?"

"These people need our help. It is our duty to bring them out."

"I don't care about your charge, and I don't give a damn about Romans, Britain or this island," Lancelot spat. "If you desire to spend eternity in the place, Arthur, so be it, but suicide cannot be chosen for another!"

"And yet you choose death for this family!"

"No, I choose life! And freedom for myself and the men!" He slammed his hands down on the wooden plank before him. He backed away, slightly disgusted and sat down on one of the many makeshit seats of hay and saddle blankets pinching his nose.

"How many times in battle have we snatched victory from the jaws of defeat?" Arthur asked. "Outnumbered, outflanked, yet still we triumph. With you at my side. we can do so again. Lancelot, we are knights. What other purpose do we serve if not for such a cause?"

Lancelot shook his head sadly. "Arthur, you fight for a world that will never exist. _Never_." He stood once more and made his way back over to where he had stood shortly before. "There will always be a battlefield." He rested his hands on the wood, sighing heavily. "I will die in battle," he said with a nod. "Of that I'm certain. And hopefully a battle of my choosing. But if it be this one, grant me a favor. Don't bury me in our sad little cemetery. Burn me. Burn me and cast my ashes to a strong east wind." He stood there for a moment gazing intently at his friend, and then with a forced chuckle he turned to leave and left Arthur standing alone in the stables.

* * *

Tristan stood silently under the crescent moon. The sky was unusually clear for this time of year. Though it seemed to rain more often here than anywhere else, this time of year usually held more unpredictable weather. The lone knight let out a frustrated sigh. He had felt something wrong with the bishop the moment he arrived. He held something in his face, in his stance, in his very voice, that Tristan just didn't trust. At first he thought he was just being paranoid. It was, after all, no secret that in general Romans did not like Sarmatians, or those who did not convert to their religion, and he believed that this knowledge was what made him dislike the bishop on sight, but once he heard the bishop speak to them in the fortress hall he knew that he was going to do something that would anger them. Why else would he want to speak to Arthur alone? Why else would he seem so angry when Arthur insisted that they held no secrets? 

_But you do hold secrets from us, Arthur_, Tristan thought. _You wonder off every time we return to the fort. Where do you go? Who do you meet that you do not speak of?_

Tristan shook his head. It really didn't matter. Who Arthur spoke to and where he went was in fact his own business and Tristan had no right to question him. Arthur was his commander, not his equal, regardless of what Arthur seemed to believe. Arthur was a dreamer and he truly believed that all men were equal. How he could think that after seeing all that he had was a wonder to the other knights, but that was one of the most endearing things about him. He had faith in people, in the world, in life. He truly believed that one day people would be equal as foolish as that was.

Above him his hawk let out a screech. His dark eyes skipped up to her. "What's the matter, huh?" He held out his arm to her, inviting her to once again land there like she had earlier. She circled over him for a while before perching on his arm. Tristan gazed into the animal's golden eyes. "Are you worried too, girl?" He stroked her feathers lightly. "Do not worry. Everything will be fine." The hawk screeched loudly, flapping her wings. A small smile spread across Tristan's lips. "You do not believe that anymore than I do, do you? I cannot say that I disagree. It does seem hopeless."

The hawk's head suddenly turned away from Tristan. "What's the matter Alleta?" he asked. "What do you hear?"

Tristan followed his gaze. In the courtyard bellow where he his in the shadows stood a young girl with a dark shawl wrapped around her shoulders. She had not been there before, he was sure of it. "Who is she? Do you know?" The hawk stared back at him unblinking. "Keeping that bit of information to yourself are you? Well, that's quite all right. I forgive you." She snapped at his fingers as if to say she did not need forgiveness. She had done nothing wrong.

Tristan smiled at his companion and continued to watch the girl below.

Rihana leaned against the outside of the building. The night was bitter, but clear. She felt this emptiness inside of her thinking of everyone leaving. She had found this village to be a place she belonged, a place where she had a home. Without them where would she be? Alone as she had been once so long ago. she adjusted her shawl a little, tilting her head to glance at the sky. The crescent moon stared back at her, unwavering. "Do you think I'll be all right?" she asked the sky. "Being alone again, huh?" She shook her head sadly. "I don't know if I could do that again. Being lonely is no way to live. I don't want to loose everything. But I don't believe there is anything I can do to stop myself from loosing it all. I want things to stay the same. Is that selfish?"

As if in an answer a loud crack of thunder ripped across the sky. Alleta screeched, flapping her wings harshly and flying into the air. Tristan watched the girl tense, and turn his way. He ducked into the shadows, pressing himself against the nearby wall.

Rihana searched the dark. _What was that?_ From the near by wall a hawk took off into the night.

Rihana felt herself relax as she let out a small laugh. "You mustn't jump at every sound, Rihana. Who would be out here at this time besides you to begin with? No one would be watching you." She shook her head as another clap of thunder sounded.

Tristan slowly made his way back to where he stood. Leaning over he glanced down at the girl.

"Miss!"

Rihana turned sharply to her left.

Walking towards her was a man that Tristan recognized as the bishop's servant. _What does he want with this girl?_ Tristan wondered.

Rihana tilted her head gazing at the man. "Yes?"

"Miss, my master requests a word with you. Immediately."

She frowned. "Your master?"

"Yes. My master." When she did not respond he let out a frustrated sigh. "Bishop Germanius." A thunder clap. "He wishes to speak to you ow."

"But...what on earth would he wish to speak to me about?"

"I don't know. I did not see the reason to ask." Horton glanced up at the sky. "Miss, it's going to rain soon. We should be going."

"Do you dislike the rain?"

"I find it rather unpleasant to be stuck in."

Rihana smiled. "I love the rain. Do you know what some believe it is?" She didn't wait for an answer. "The tears of those who have died. If they see someone they care about in a great deal of pain or danger they cry from their final resting place."

Horton glanced at her in distaste. "Ridiculous."

She shrugged gracefully. "Perhaps, but that is what some believe."

As large drops of rain began to fall Horton tried in vain to cover his head. "Come miss. Let us go." Rihana stood motionless for a moment and then with a small nod she began to follow Horton. She had moved no more than a few steps when she turned. Her eyes locked to where Tristan stood, though he doubted she could see him in the dark through the rain. Still, the fact that she chose that place to look unsettled him. He was not used to being unsettled, especially a woman. _No, not just any woman,_ he told himself. _She is a Woad. I could tell a Woad from any distance. But what is a Woad doing here? And why would the Bishop want to speak to her?_

Tristan glanced up at the sky, then shook his head, laughing to himself quietly. "Dead people crying? That, I'm afraid, is absurd." _Besides, no one would cry for me even if it were true. I have no one who would care that much._

* * *

Please review this story. It has gotten over 500 hits but 7 reviews. I know that some people don't have time to review but even something short is nice, even if it's bad. Please? I'm begging here. puppy dog whimpers 


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